


as you fade to black

by inquisitor_tohru



Category: The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood Mage Harrowhark Nonagesimus, Blood Magic, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, First Kiss, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Needles, No Spoilers for Harrow the Ninth, Retelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:55:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26089060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inquisitor_tohru/pseuds/inquisitor_tohru
Summary: In another universe, Harrowhark Nonagesimus was not a necromancer, but a blood mage.
Relationships: Gideon Nav/Harrowhark Nonagesimus
Comments: 6
Kudos: 34
Collections: Alternate Universe Exchange 2020





	as you fade to black

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nununununu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nununununu/gifts).



Growing up with a tiny blood mage could leave its marks on a person. _Literally._

The bronze skin of Gideon's back was criss-crossed with scars from Harrowhark's magical practice, Harrowhark's irritations, and, well, Harrowhark generally being Harrowhark. At least she'd got in a few punches of her own. There were times when they'd both been so drenched with it that they'd managed to lose track of _whose_ blood was dripping onto the cold obsidian slabs of Drearburh's floors. They both had their share of marks, and that was _before_ the day that had coloured the rest of their lives redder than ever before.

Priamhark and Pelleamena, Lord and Lady of the Ninth House, Revered Father and Mother of Drearburh, looked on in silence as Harrow addressed an audience too thin to be called a crowd. It was all they _could_ do. Harrowhark's magic kept the blood pumping through their veins so their skin had maintained _some_ colour. They wore crimson robes and their left hands were stained red with madder root dye, as were the left hands of everyone else in attendance, save for Gideon and Ortus Nigenad, a lump of a man who claimed to have allergies triggered by the sacramental dye (because of _course_ he did) and instead wore a single red glove. The Reverend Father and Mother certainly looked a lot better than the corpses in the morgue, at any rate. If anyone had cared enough to look closely, they might have noticed that while Harrowhark's parents had extremely steady, regular heartbeats, their chests did not rise and fall with the labour of breathing, for they had drawn their last breaths long ago. Nobody did. Neither did anyone ask about their lives of quiet seclusion or vows of uncharacteristic silence, renewed each year. _Gideon_ knew it was a load of hot garbage, as did Aiglamene and old mean-faced, mean-spirited, mean- _everything_ Crux.

You could do a lot with blood magic, but even the most skilled mage couldn't bring back the dead. Not even those who struck deals with spirits and demons could do _that._ There was only one being who had that power but the Necrolord Prime, the gentle Emperor, was far, far away from here and besides, Gideon doubted he had the time or inclination to go about resurrecting parents here, there and everywhere.

Above her, tiny luminol crystals dusted the arches of Drearburh's dark and miserable sanctum, some lemon-tinted, others emitting a cold blue glow as evidence of the Reverend Daughter's magical prowess. As if she needed any. Gideon swallowed as soft, lumpy Ortus, Harrowhark's so-called cavalier (which everyone knew was an absolute _joke),_ led the congregation in prayer and then, all at once, the faithful ran their sharp blades across their red palms. Their blood steamed in the freezing Drearburh air in a collective whisper, and for a hot second Gideon thought she might throw up in her mouth. It wasn't that she was squeamish about blood - she was frequently, _currently,_ covered in the stuff and she'd hardly have survived Harrowhark if she fainted like a girlish maiden at the very sight or smell of it. It was just that the Ninth House blood _rituals_ gave her the heebie-jeebies. Frankly, she wondered what else, if anything, they had to give.

In the end, as usual, it turned out to be about what _she_ had to give. Or, more precisely, what Harrowhark could _take._ Well, at least the whole saga with Ortus and his mother had provided some light entertainment. Evidently, she wasn't the only person on Crux's shit list.

Harrowhark stared pointedly at Gideon's bare left hand, with her usual sneering disapproval. She wore the same ceremonial red robes as her parents, reserved exclusively for the Revered Family. Gideon's own clothing was that of the cultists, the nuns, and the lay people of the Ninth House - ill-fitting garments in various shades of nearly-black.

"Your hand," Harrowhark said, as if its nakedness offended every fibre of her being. Gideon considered pulling an Ortus and claiming it aggravated _her_ non-existent allergies, but Crux would probably just kick her in the head again (only after Harrowhark incapacitated her of course, since it wasn't like the marshal could beat her in a _fair_ fight). Gideon remembered picking the swollen, blackened madder berries with Harrowhark as a child while their elders harvested the roots for sacramental dye, her arms savaged by the plants' prickly leaves, or Harrowhark's blood magic. Usually both.

Neither had stung as much as when Harrowhark told her about the shuttle.

A week later, when Harrowhark came to her cell, Gideon had had more than enough time to marinate in her miseries, and she didn't much care for having salt rubbed in her wounds. Unfortunately for her, Harrowhark Nonagesimus was salty as fuck. Two could play that game, but only one of them had the ability to _literally_ make the other's blood bubble and boil under her skin. On the bright side, she got in a few good kicks and punches. A couple of verbal jabs that weren't her best work because, damn it, she was still nursing a broken heart.

“If you want to do something _interesting_ , come with me."

* * *

Interesting was one word for Canaan House and its bizarre entourage of priests in rainbow sashes and skeleton servants, eternally bound in service to their Kindly Prince, the Emperor Undying, even if it wasn't the word Gideon would have picked. Even the usually oh-so-eloquent Harrowhark was ill at ease. Their company of mismatched mages and cavaliers was equally eclectic. Gideon had memorised a few of their names and titles, since Harrowhark had insisted upon her silence, and there wasn't much else to do. The reading material she'd found thus far in Canaan House was subpar and didn't have nearly enough naked ladies to make up for the awful writing.

The Second House's mage could move the earth. Well, to be more precise, she could manipulate tectonic plates, or something along those lines. Harrowhark had gone into a lot of technical detail and Gideon's head still hurt from the headache that was _Harrowhark._ The point was that she served the Emperor as one of the Cohort's geomancers. She and her cav wore neat, white garments reminiscent of their uniforms.

The two crown princesses of Ida were mistresses of ice, but only one looked the part. Aside from her flimsy silvery-white gown, there was nothing remotely icy about Coronabeth Tridentarius, from her tumbling golden hair and copper skin to her gorgeous, muscular thighs. Not that Gideon had been staring. Her twin, Ianthe, looked as saturated as if Coronabeth had drained all the colour from her in the womb. Her matching white dress hung awkwardly and made her skin look like one giant, yellowing bruise. (Gideon didn't pay much attention to their cav, who seemed like a smug prick.)

The Fourth House had sent a couple of shitty teens with more piercings than she was willing to count, though Gideon had to admire the kids' balls. She couldn't remember what the mage's speciality was, but she thought it must have something to do with metal. The Fifth cavalier, Magnus, was a kindly sort who fawned over them and made a lot of puns, and so Gideon automatically liked him. Abigail Pent's magical practice was unique in that it relied on _borrowed_ magic. Her talents lay in summoning, and while there were undoubtedly drawbacks, she was not limited to any specific magical framework or element. That made her dangerous, Harrowhark had said, glaring at the bookish, bespectacled woman.

The heir to the Fifth House seemed like a smug prick, but for whatever reason, Gideon liked him a good deal more than the Third cav. He made potions, or something. She didn't recall his cavalier's name, but she'd _definitely_ be finding that out later.

The first thing Gideon noticed about Dulcinea Septimus was that she had no cavalier. The second was the fire spirit that loomed behind her, somehow hulking and ethereal all at once. Okay, so Gideon could admit _that_ was kind of interesting. The heir to the Eighth House was a bland-looking young man with a cav that looked a _little_ more human than Dulcinea's companion. The Eighth, Harrowhark had told her on the shuttle, dealt with spirits - and demons, she'd added, because in spite of what the Eighth believed, there was very little distinction. Looking at this poor, possessed cavalier, Gideon found it was in fact possible for her to believe something that came out of Harrowhark's mouth.

It was also possible, she thought, as she reeled off the last of Harrowhark's descriptions of the other Houses, that out of all the people here, she wasn't the one with the shortest end of the stick.

* * *

When it came to the rituals that bound mages and cavaliers, Gideon began to understand why none of the saints of legend had been blood mages. Their cavs _definitely_ got the short end of the stick. Or maybe it was that she and Harrow were just so fundamentally incompatible. It could have been both. She'd much rather have been submerged in ice-water for a few hours, as the Third cavalier had been. After all, Drearburh had prepared her for _every_ type of cold. When it came to blood magic everything always had to be dramatic and painful and (surprise!) bloody.

This time was no exception. They performed their binding ritual in the basement's medical facility beneath crackling fluorescent lights filled with dead bugs.

"Really sets the tone."

"Hold _still,_ Nav." Gideon rolled her eyes as Harrow prepared the butterfly needle, vacuum tube holder, and various tubing.

"Honestly, I thought you'd just open up my own by, you know." Gideon waved her arm about in what more or less passed for an imitation of 'doing blood magic'. Strangely, Harrow looked more upset than annoyed, and for some reason that made Gideon feel bad. Well, almost. (Since when did Harrowhark become Harrow, anyway?)

Gideon had to admit that Harrow knew what she was doing here. All she felt was a small pinch as the needle pierced her skin. Harrow was taking something from her and, after that first sharp scratch, it did not hurt. As she watched the tubing turn red, it was the first time she'd looked upon blood and associated it not with dying, but with living.

She still wasn't looking forward to watching Harrow drink it, though.

When she was done, Harrow pressed a wad of wet cotton against the pin prick wound, applying just enough pressure to her forearm to slow the flow of blood. Her hands were cold, as always, but it was the first time she'd touched Gideon like this. As Harrow wound the bandage around her arm, she wondered if it would be the last. She hoped that it would not.

A few days, or maybe weeks after the blood ritual in the basement, Harrow told her about the blood sacrifice that facilitated her birth, in a terrible amount of detail for someone who hadn't yet existed. What flowed through Harrowhark Nonagesimus's veins was an amalgamation of two hundred dead children's blood.

"I have their blood on my hands, Griddle," she whispered, staring at her red left hand. Gideon didn't ask whether she meant that figuratively or literally. She'd had enough _something interestings_ to last several lifetimes, and in the end it made no difference. Gently, she took Harrow's left hand in her right.

"No, you don't. That's on your parents, and whoever else they involved in that bullshit ritual. You weren't even _born,_ Harrow."

"And I wouldn't have been." She imagined Harrow's knuckles turning white beneath the red dye as her bony fingers curled into a fist in Gideon's hand.

"I can't imagine a world without you," she said, inwardly kicking herself for how corny it sounded when she said it out loud, and _especially_ in a situation like this. _Real smooth, Nav._

"I can, and I imagine you'd be happier in it."

It was probably a bad time, but her life was a whole series of bad times and that didn't seem like it was going to change any time soon. She leaned down and kissed Harrowhark Nonagesimus on the lips.

* * *

Something interesting. _Something_ _interesting,_ Harrow had promised her, all that time ago. Well, you couldn't get much more interesting than fighting a demigod saint bathed in flame, summoning a torrent of fire and brimstone from the heavens. Fucking _interesting._ Fucking _dead,_ more like. As if bunking in a decrepit old palace with a basement full of ghosts hadn't been bad enough.

Gideon's broadsword, coated with some kind of alchemical substance (courtesy of Palamedes) was able to shield them from the worst of it for now, but the room was engulfed and their resident ice queen - ice _goddess_ now, or near enough - was currently indisposed. Harrow's blood magic was, in a rare turn of events, effectively useless. Gideon was willing to cut her a _little_ slack here because, honestly, this was a pretty extraordinary situation. But, frankly, she was growing tired of all this blocking and parrying.

She glanced at Harrow, taking one last look at her pointed chin, and her pinched vulpine features, and her left hand, with only a few blotches of red dye remaining. She looked into Harrow's near-black eyes with newfound clarity, knowing the time had come to commit to what Ortus Nigenad, her unfortunate predecessor, had been too afraid to consider. Harrow's eyes went wide with realisation.

Gideon Nav had to die.

Before Harrow, who wasn't really in any condition to do anything much, could attempt to stop her, she charged into the fire like she was the Matthias Nonius of Ortus' _Noniad._ Maybe the real Nonius really had been that good. If there was an afterlife, she'd make a point of asking after him. His stories couldn't be any more tedious than Ortus' glorified love letter to a long-dead hero.

For someone who'd grown up in the bitter cold of the Ninth House, the heat was almost unbearable, flames licking at the hems of Gideon's old, ragged church robes. It took her a moment to realise that something utterly and profoundly _weird_ was happening around her. Either Palamedes' alchemical treatments were more potent than he gave himself credit for, or she had a fucking _magic sword._ Given everything Gideon had learned since coming to Canaan House, it was the latter that seemed more plausible. In any case, the flames never reached her, evidently repelled by her broadsword. _See,_ she'd tell Harrow, when she stuck around to haunt her, _I told you rapiers were bullshit._

She lunged at the demigod with tears in her eyes. From the fire and rising ashes, and definitely no other reason whatsoever. Not because the demigod's body, ravaged by Harrow's blood magic and the effects of Palamedes' alchemy was still, in its way, beautiful. Not because Palamedes was likely burned to a crisp, and not because Camilla was trapped beneath a fallen, flaming beam. None of those reasons, and most definitely not because of the awful, primal scream - if the noise could rightly even be called a scream - that erupted from Harrow's cracked and bloodied lips.

"For the Ninth," Gideon murmured sotto voce, more for her own ears than anyone else's, and swung her sword.

Her blade struck true, and Gideon collapsed with a smile upon her face as Harrow's silhouette shuffled closer, then blurred into obscurity as everything faded to black.


End file.
